


lose your clothes (in the crowd)

by void_fish



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: BDSM, Edging, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 21:57:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20896748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/void_fish/pseuds/void_fish
Summary: The first place Dylan looks when the whistle goes is at the ref. The second place is at the big screen, where he watches his stick get stuck between a player’s ankles, sending him crashing to the ice. The third is at the bench, where he can see Brent staring him down.





	lose your clothes (in the crowd)

**Author's Note:**

> yes, hello, it's me again
> 
> day three of kinktober brings you public sex with a small side of edging.
> 
> this is all ria's fault.

The first place Dylan looks when the whistle goes is at the ref. The second place is at the big screen, where he watches his stick get stuck between a player’s ankles, sending him crashing to the ice. The third is at the bench, where he can see Brent staring him down.

He sits his two minutes with his head ducked, and plays the rest of the game with a shiver down his spine.

-

Brent’s the first one back to the locker room, after the game, sits in Dylan’s stall easily.

‘Strip,’ he says, as soon as Dylan’s stood in front of him, and Dylan’s cheeks heat.

He’s still not used to this. He’s not sure when he will be.

Around him, the team is milling around. There’s music playing, something with thick, dull bass. He looks around for Alex, who’s laughing with Saader. Their eyes meet, and Alex frowns, a question. Dylan nods, and turns his attention back to Brent.

‘You gone deaf, Stromer?’ Brent asks.

Dylan shakes his head, and pulls his jersey off.

They keep the locker room cool, and Dylan can see the steam rising off of Brent as he leans forward, elbows on his thighs, to watch Dylan undress. He kneels after, head bowed, looking at Brent’s skates.

‘Stay there,’ Brent says, and leaves, goes back to his own stall. Dylan sighs quietly, and closes his eyes, lets the sounds of the team wash over him. The cool air feels pretty good on his skin, and he can feel the sweat from the game drying on him already.

It feels like it’s only been a couple of minutes by the time Brent comes back, freshly showered, sprawling naked in the stall, unselfconscious. Dylan risks glancing up at him, and Brent tosses a small bottle of lube onto the ground between them.

‘You have five minutes,’ he says. ‘Then Coach is coming in, and he’s gonna want you ready.’

Dylan suppresses a shiver, and clicks open the lube.

It’s cold; Dylan knows that Brent likes to keep it in the fridge, but he grits his teeth and slicks himself up anyway, getting to three fingers before Brent tangles a hand in his hair and pulls him up into his lap.

They build the benches in locker rooms deep for a reason. Brent slides back, bringing Dylan with him, forcing him to kneel over his thighs, facing the room.

‘If you come while Coach is in the room, he’s gonna be pissed,’ Brent warns Dylan, before spreading his legs and forcing Dylan’s knees apart until he feels the head of Brent’s dick sliding against him.

Brent isn’t the biggest Dylan’s ever had, but he’s thick, and it takes longer than he’d like before he bottoms out, clenching automatically around him. He gets about thirty seconds to adjust, and then the door opens and Coach strides into the room.

His eyes sweep the players automatically, sliding over Dylan like he’s not even there. Sliding over Perls, kneeling peacefully next to Saader, who has a hand in his hair, scritching gently.

‘Start moving,’ Brent says, low and rough in Dylan’s ear, and he wraps one hand lightly around Dylan’s throat, squeezing gently until Dylan tenses his thigh muscles and rises up a few inches. Not enough for Brent to slide out of him, but enough that when he drops back down, he can still feel the stretch.

He makes a sound, and Coach’s eyes flicker back to him for a millisecond. He doesn’t even break stride in his post game speech. Brent’s hand tightens again in warning before loosening.

His other hand is around the head of Dylan’s dick, not moving, but every time Dylan lifts himself up, he fucks into the circle of Brent’s fingers.

‘--Have to be more careful in the neutral zone,’ Coach is saying, when Dylan forces himself to pay attention, trying to ignore the burn in his thighs from skating all night and now-- well, this. ‘We played well in our own zone, decent in their zone, but guys, we have to get those passes in the neutral zone perfect, otherwise teams like Tampa? They’ll take the puck away all fucking night.’

Brent tightens his fist suddenly, and Dylan can’t help himself. He whines, and Coach looks straight at him.

‘Something to add, Stromer?’ he asks, perfectly neutral, and Dylan feels himself flush even redder than he is.

Dylan, with a mammoth effort, shakes his head. ‘No, Coach,’ he says, voice only cracking a little bit.

‘Good,’ he says. ‘Because if I was you, after that penalty you took in the third, I’d be keeping very quiet about the neutral zone.’

‘Yes, Coach,’ Dylan manages, and then Brent’s hand on his throat tightens, and he falls silent again, except for the sound of Brent fucking in and out of him.

Dylan tries to listen to Coach talking, he really does. He even manages it, for a little while, but he can feel the pressure building at the base of his dick, can feel his balls tightening, and he slows his pace, tries to pause between thrusts. His thigh muscles are trembling, but Coach still keeps talking.

There’s a sheen of sweat breaking out on his chest again, slicking up his back where it’s sliding against Brent.

He thinks Brent can sense he’s close, because he takes his hand off of Dylan’s dick. It takes every ounce of strength in Dylan’s body to bite down on his lower lip and not make a sound.

He’s never been able to come untouched though, even like this, when he’s so close he could cry; as soon as Brent stops touching him, he can feel it fade back to a dull ache, and he finds his hips jumping as he tries something, anything to get some kind of relief.

He lets his head fall back, hitting Brent’s shoulder, and his hands clench into fists, blunt nails digging into his palms. He breathes through his nose as hard as he can.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been when his thigh muscles give in, when he just sags, almost splits himself in half on Brent’s dick it feels like, but he just can’t move any more. Not like that. Everything hurts. His ass, his legs, his stomach, where he’s been tensing his muscles to keep his balance. He feels like he felt the first day back in the gym after the offseason, kind of like he wants to cry and puke, but can’t decide which to do.

Coach finally, finally, winds down his talk. He says something pointed about learning not to take unnecessary penalties outside of the defensive zone, congratulates Alex on his goal, and walks out of the room.

Dylan’s whimper breaks the silence, and in a heartbeat, Brent’s hand is back on his dick, jerking him off hard and fast until he comes on his own stomach with a sob.

Brent kisses the side of his neck, surprisingly affectionate.

‘Good job, kid,’ he says, before lifting Dylan off of him carefully and wrapping an arm around his waist to help him into the shower. 

‘Maybe next time, pay just a little more attention to where you put your stick, huh?’ Alex says, materialising at Dylan’s other side, elbowing him gently. ‘Idiot.’

‘You’re just jealous,’ Dylan mumbles, making Brent laugh. ‘You /wish/ you got assigned to Seabs.’

‘Okay, kiddo,’ Brent says, turning the water on. ‘Shower, home, sleep, okay. Morning skate at nine tomorrow.’

‘I got him,’ Alex says, slotting himself under Dylan’s other arm and taking some of the weight. 

‘You always do,’ Dylan says, giving him a wonky smile that makes Alex flush and laugh.

‘Sleep,’ Brent says again. ‘Maybe make him stretch some before bed. He’ll be sore in the morning.’

Alex salutes, and Brent leaves them to it. Sometimes, Dylan wishes he’d stay a little longer, but the quiet moments after things like that, with Alex? He thinks they might be better than any goal he’s ever scored.


End file.
